


Stubborn

by hisuiai



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:09:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisuiai/pseuds/hisuiai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tries to remain smug as John leaves, tries to keep the mix of triumph—angerhurtwhy—triumph and satisfaction of a correct deduction in the front of his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stubborn

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally an RP with a friend who played John, we've stopped now (unfortunately) so I can only offer this.

Sherlock tries to remain smug as John leaves, tries to keep the mix of triumph—angerhurtwhy—triumph and satisfaction of a correct deduction in the front of his mind. He grips his mobile tightly, anyway, his knuckles grow whiter with every second John doesn’t return. He knows he’s difficult to live with, John knows that too—had known, knows!—John knows that too, and Sherlock is partially shocked at how long it was.

He’d been expecting John to leave much earlier, after all… but he hadn’t, and Sherlock had gotten complacent. He’s not complacent any more.

He’s still standing there with the mobile clutched in his hands as the smugness fades. The triumph within him flickers and dies, and all that’s left is the hurt, the confusion, the doubt. He stares down at the mobile in his hand for a long moment, it could be so easy, a couple of words and the argument would be over, and John would be back… so easy.

But Sherlock’s stubborn, and, furthermore, he’s right. He drops the mobile on the couch, and returns to John’s laptop – he has research to be doing.

 

The research doesn’t last long as his phone buzzes from only a few feet away. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, it takes him what feels to be less than a second to cross the room and pick up the phone. A feeling he doesn’t want to identify swells within him and it breaks; it’s Lestrade. He pushes away any thoughts of the earlier argument, pulls on his coat, and exits the flat. Hopefully the crime scene would be—

“Dull.” He groans aloud, examining the body before him. “Why did you call me out for something so _obvious_?”

Lestrade moves to answer, but Donovan cuts him off, talking loudly to Anderson about how dangerous it was to talk to the freak without his keeper. Sherlock ignores the first half of her words, but, she’s partially right, it _is_ weird without John here. He doesn’t dare look at his mobile as he turns back to examining the body – Lestrade’s answer as to why, exactly, he’s been called out no longer mattering in the long-run.

“Who are your suspects?” He asks at last, expecting a list of everyone but the culprit. He gets, of course, what he expects.

 

Sherlock tries to hold back, he really does—not everyone has his thought process, after all—but with the stupidity of people on top of his argument with John, he’s really, _really_ not in the mood for this. He lets go of any filters he’d developed after living with John and proceeds to explain – more like rant, really – how and why the daughter is the killer. “ _Mother had stolen her boyfriend,_ ” He doesn’t focus on what he’s saying, “ _and the second one._ ” he doesn’t even focus on the knots that had been within him since the argument loosening a little, “ _Daughter had access to the chemicals._ ” he focuses on the weight of the mobile in his pocket and the argument replaying over and over in his head.

“How do you _know_ it’s her daughter?” Donovan asks, annoyance peppering her tone.

“Women tend to go for poisons,” he eyes Donovan’s weapon for a moment, “Not you, Donovan, you don’t count. She’s a single mother, probably never been married or has been unmarried for the past few years judging by the lack of a ring or tan line on her finger. She’s also rather attractive, and, as you can see from the photos, more so than her daughter.”

“That doesn’t mean she killed her.” Anderson responds, and Sherlock sighs.

“Imbeciles.” He mutters, “She probably got fed up, she’s a reasonably smart woman – you can tell by the certificates – she probably got sick of being outdone by her mother. If it was someone she loved, the betrayal would have been enough of a motive.”

He tries not to let his distaste for such a motive show, as he answers the rest of the questions directed to him. Love, how boring, lots of people killed in the name of ‘love’. Finally, the group accepts his deductions, and he’s able to head home.

His hand brushes the edge of his mobile in his pocket; he pulls it out and runs his thumb over the screen contemplatively. The taxi he’d been about to flag down speeds past him, and, with a small curse, he puts the phone back in his pocket and begins the walk back to 221b Baker Street.

 

He only just stops himself from asking John to make some tea as he steps through the door, everything is how he’d left it – John hasn’t returned. His mobile bumps his hip as he begins to remove his coat, he pauses, his coat hangs from one shoulder and the mobile hits his calf.

He sends a glance to the front door before reaching down and pulling out his mobile.  
  **New message – John**  
  _We’re out of milk. SH_

His thumb hovers over the send button for a moment – they’re not out of milk, John had bought a new carton the day prior – he pulls his coat back on, trying to place the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. Nervous? He’s never been nervous before, never had a need to be nervous before… it’s only John, he’s texted John loads of times. He’s never been this worried before.

There’s a knock at the door, and he’s hit send before he can even process what he’s done. Mrs. Hudson enters the flat, and he doesn’t know whether to curse her or thank her.

 

His phone buzzes as Mrs. Hudson’s making tea; she’s nattering on even now while he’s tuned her out and unlocking his phone. “ _Why that’s probably him now, dear._ ”

**Messages – Received – John**  
 A small flicker of hope rises within him— _John says that there’s extra milk in the cupboard above the fridge, next to the jam. Sarah_ —it extinguishes just as quickly.

He accepts the tea Mrs. Hudson hands him, and rests his mobile on the coffee table – or rather, on some of the clutter on the coffee table – and sits back down on the couch he would otherwise be curled up upon if not for the fact Mrs. Hudson had just sat down next to him. She smiles as she sips her tea, and after a few minutes pats his arm.

“He’ll be back soon, Sherlock,” she murmurs, her breath brushing the surface of her tea, “You both care about each other, after all.”

Sherlock’s silent, his gaze fixed on his tea rather than the mobile on the coffee table. He just sits there for a moment, the tea warming his hands—hands he hadn’t even realised were cold before now.

“Can I have some biscuits?” He asks at last, refusing to voice any of the thoughts in his head.

“I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.” Mrs. Hudson admonishes as she stands and heads downstairs with her tea. She doesn’t return five minutes later and Sherlock places his untouched tea by his mobile and curls up on the couch.

The tea’s cold by the time he feels the need to drink it.


End file.
